True Grits at Thanksgiving
This morning’s bowl of grits reminded me of many Happy Thanksgivings in the Stewart family where Ma and I sat on the front porch watching traffic on County Road 777, happy that my dear old Daddy was in the barn sleeping off a week’s worth of extra partying. We were grateful for moments of silence punctuated by the sounds of our spoons clattering against the sides of our heaping bowls of grits and homemade butter.
“It takes true grits to live in a family like ours,” Ma always said.
“You’re right as rain, Ma.”
“Yep,” she would say. “Of course, if Pa were awake, we wouldn’t have heart-to-heart moments like this.”
“We still love him though.”
“Well then, I’m grateful for ‘mostly.'”
Good times, a lot of memories, grits and a fair amount of ‘mostly.’